Perception
by simeysgirl
Summary: Harry likes Draco. Draco likes Harry. Ron just wants some peace.


**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter belongs to JKR.

**Perception**

**Harry.**

It's bloody ridiculous. Draco bloody Malfoy. How could I be gaga over Draco bloody Malfoy? I haven't been able to say more than two words to him since I realised this fact. Of all the people in the world, why does it have to be him?

As Hermione said on finding out: "You can't choose who you fall for, Harry."

I much prefer Ginny's response: "I can't fault you there. Have you _seen_ his arse?"

Well, of course I'd seen his arse; I'd only been staring at it every time he walked away from me for the past month. Firm, it looked. And the perfect size to grab a handful of. If he'd let me, of course. A small part of me died a little every time I thought about _why_ he walked away from me and the chances of him letting me grab a handful, but I try not to think about it too much.

I won't repeat Ron's reaction to my drunken confession. It was very similar to mine, just with more swear words. Not the whole me being gay thing, no. He was perfectly okay with that. He had been the one to tell me I wasn't exactly straight to start with. But the Draco thing—Ron couldn't quite grasp the _who_.

I'd first come to the conclusion that I'd very much like to ask Draco out for a drink, or to a Quidditch match, or something about three months ago. The whole department had been out celebrating Hitchen's birthday and it had been the first time I'd spent any out-of-office time with Draco since school. It had been all polite 'Good morning's and quick 'See you tomorrow's until that fateful night in the pub.

Draco Malfoy was funny—hilarious, even. His comic timing was spot on, and his impressions had people falling out of their chairs with laughter. If there's one thing guaranteed to turn me on—apart from the obvious—it was someone making me laugh. It wasn't just his funny side, either. He was, for want of a better word, nice. All smiles—and what a brilliant smile he had—and sparkling eyes. Not literally sparkling, of course. The world and his crup knew that Draco was gay—I hate the _Prophet—_but he wasn't a bloody drag queen. He usually wore the nicest suits under his robes. The shirts fitted just right to show off his upper arms, and the jacket barely covering the perfect arse. Thank Merlin that our office was hotter than hell; there never was any need for robes.

Where was I? Oh, yes. I realised I wanted to spend more time with the man that had turned from my school yard enemy into a colleague. I wanted to be his friend—I would've taken anything I could've got.

That changed the very next time we—as a department—went out for drinks. It was Beresford's retirement do and it was held at a little dive on the outskirts of Surrey. And Draco wore jeans. Tight around the arse, fitting where they touched, jeans. Where the buggering fuck did Draco get jeans from? I didn't actually care, my brain was just processing the fact that I wanted him out of them. Or, at least, his cock out of them. Me, on the floor in front of him, my fingers threaded through his belt loops as I sucked his soul out of his cock. Mmm. Yes. Sorry, got carried away there.

So that has basically been the all-consuming thought in all my waking—and non-waking—hours since that night. How much I want Draco bloody Malfoy. Well, that and the fact that he doesn't want me. He wouldn't walk away from me as much if he did.

* * *

><p><strong>Draco<strong>

"Eurgh." That was my first response to finding out who I would be working with at the Ministry. That and a roll of my eyes. "Why me?" I'd wailed to Pansy. I'd worked so hard since school had finished. I'd done well in my NEWTs and struggled to even get an interview. And now, after finally getting a job—after six months of trying—I'd be working with _him_. Harry bloody Potter.

"Fucking hell," and a suddenly tight crotch. That had been my first reaction to actually _seeing_ Harry bloody Potter again. The last I'd seen him, he'd been skinny and dirty with black bags under his eyes and blood splattered all over him. Merlin, what a couple of hot meals and a bath can do for some people. He was, for want of a better word, gorgeous. Still not the tallest man in the world, but he had the look of someone who'd _lived_. You know, that air of, 'been there, done that' about him. Rugged, I think they call it.

It had started off so well. We shook hands on my first day, and had been nothing but polite since. We greeted each other in the morning, and we said goodbye in the evening. If we needed to discuss something about work, we did. Politely. I thought I maybe, might have, in the future, asked him out for a drink or to the Quidditch or something. And then it all changed.

It was Hitchen's birthday, I think, that changed things. For a while, there were more smiles passed between us; once or twice, I could've sworn that Harry was going to ask me _something_. I very nearly asked him myself. I don't know what stopped me. Probably Mother's resounding nagging in my ear. She's a worrier, that one. Always concerned that I'm going to get hurt. She says that people don't forget so easily and that I should watch myself around Harry and the rest of the office.

I'm actually quite glad I didn't say anything, if what happened next was any indication. Harry stopped talking to me altogether. Maybe I was a bit too loud when we went out for old Beresford's retirement do. Maybe I'd misread the signs in the first place. I just know that I can't be close to him any more; I can't help but walk away from him when he can't look me in the face. Oh well, I'll just have to want what I can't have.

* * *

><p><strong>Ron<strong>

I don't like many things. I don't like Hermione calling me Ronald. I don't like corned beef. I don't like the way most people take the piss out of the Cannons. I don't like the way Harry stares at Malfoy's arse. But most of all, I don't like to see Harry without a smile on his face. You see, he mainly stares at Malfoy's arse as Malfoy is walking away from him, and Harry doesn't like—for reasons known only to Harry—Malfoy walking away from him.

Harry admitted—under the influence of one too many beers, one night at Ginny's—that he fancied the pants off Draco Malfoy. Not just fancied him, the way you might glance at someone twice as they walked by you in the street, but _fancied_ fancied him. The way you want to grab that person and pin them against the wall. Or, so he'd described in detail to us. One thing I learned that night: I'm pants at Silencing Charms when I've had a drink. He just wouldn't shut up. He kept on and on, describing Malfoy's _attributes_.

I'd woken up the following morning with a headache and a niggling feeling in the back of my mind that something terrible had happened. It wasn't until I'd stumbled into the living room to see Harry nursing a cup of tea that the realisation hit. I looked at him once with a raised eyebrow and he nodded his head in return. I knew then that I was screwed. If Harry wanted Malfoy, then Harry would have to get Malfoy. And I would just have to deal with it.

I had the benefit—or not, depends how you look at it—of being able to observe both Harry and Malfoy while they were busy observing each other. I saw the wistful looks on Harry's face when he glanced in Malfoy's direction. I saw the—and it pains me to say it—longing looks on Malfoy's face when he stared at Harry over his cuppa.

I also saw what happened when they turned away from each other. I saw the look of disappointment on Harry's face when Malfoy turned away from him. I saw _why_ Malfoy walked away from him. Harry hadn't talked much about Malfoy since his drunken confession; he just said to leave it whenever Ginny or Hermione pestered him about it.

_Some_ people think I have the emotional range of various items of cutlery, but I don't. I could see—as much as I didn't want to—perfectly what was wrong with Harry and Malfoy. Harry was always the same when he fancied someone. He fumbled around, catching glances here and there, but refusing to actually talk to the person he liked. I don't know much about Malfoy, but I did notice the way he'd open his mouth to say something and quickly close it before walking away.

It couldn't go on. I needed Harry to smile again, and I definitely needed to stop spending my working hours watching those two ignore each other.

So I did it, I'll admit it. It wasn't big, and it wasn't inventive. But it needed doing. Two letters: one in Harry's handwriting, and one in Malfoy's. My wife's a genius—she found the spell for me. Of course, I didn't tell her what it was for. Just curious, I told her.

They both said pretty much the same thing. You've heard the ploy before, I'm sure. No point in changing a working formula. _Meet me at Guiseppe's at 8pm. I have something to talk to you about. H (or D; depends which note you looked at)._

I was half-tempted to go along to the pub and make sure that the plan—such as it was—worked. But Hermione was expecting me for dinner, and I knew she'd promised me...never mind, that's another story. Anyway, I didn't go, so I didn't know how they'd got on.

I soon found out though. I walked to work the following morning, weary as to what I'd find. Maybe they'd discovered that I was behind the notes, and were looking for some revenge, I didn't know. As I entered the office, I knew I was the last thought on their minds. Well, I sincerely hoped so, anyway.

I no longer had to watch the two of them moping about, but I also couldn't see a smile on Harry's face. I was sure it would be there, though. As soon as he stopped snogging Malfoy, I was sure he'd be looking quite happy indeed.


End file.
